


Pick Apart

by Alethia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Between Episodes, Brotherly Bonding, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-08
Updated: 2006-08-08
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These were the times they got into trouble, needling each other with a little more force, a little less humor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pick Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/218653.html).

“Hundred. Hundred-one. Hundred-two. Hundred-three.”

“It won’t work, you know.”

“Hundred-four. Hundred-five. Hundred-six.”

“You can’t shame me.”

“Hundred-seven. Hundred-eight. Hundred-nine.”

“You can’t count high enough to get me down there with you,” Sam informed him, measured and rational, if he did say so himself. 

Dean gave every appearance of not hearing a word, continuing on with his one-armed push-ups like Robocop turned human and with a coating of flesh to boot. If Sam ever needed confirmation that his brother was in ridiculously good shape, this would be sufficient, Dean attacking a series of push-ups like some rabid Energizer bunny, all glistening muscles and that one hand held loosely at the small of his back, like real push-ups were for lesser mortals, watch as Dean effortlessly scoffed at them.

Or at Sam. Jury was still out, really.

“Hundred-ten. Hundred-eleven. Hundred-twelve.”

“Neither will the silent treatment.”

“Hundred-thirteen. Hundred-fourteen. Hundred-fifteen.”

“I’m immune.”

Truth was, the silent treatment was getting to him. Dean wasn’t exactly the type to be short on words—never had been—so whenever he forwent them, it was sadly effective. Worse because Sam knew the reason he did was a mute kind of disapproval; it silently lectured Sam about staying strong, staying fit, you never know when you’ll need to fall back on serious muscle memory and sheer, desperate strength to save your ass.

Dean probably thought he showed care and concern. All Sam felt was the implied insult. If Jess were here, they’d so get a lecture on “effective communication” and “the fundamentals of healthy relationships.”

Then again, if Jess were here, he wouldn’t be.

“Hundred-sixteen. Hundred-seventeen. Hundred-eighteen.”

“And I know how your mind works. You can just sit there doing push-ups until your arms fall off.” Sam sat back on the bed, refusing to watch the pooling sweat at the base of Dean’s spine, the way the lights made his skin glow, and resolutely ignoring the scent of Dean, close in the small room and curling into an acidic bite at the roof of Sam’s mouth. The ceiling’s swirls and cracks told a far more interesting tale. Totally.

Dean was bored. Dean was bored and he wanted Sam to know it, to feel it, like it was Sam’s punishment for not giving Dean enough to do, as if it were all Sam’s fault that restless evil had apparently decided to take a break and further, Sam should feel bad about that. Because it was his fault. So Dean was punishing him. Or something.

Yep. That all Sam had, all he could get from Dean’s little—display. That and that Dean thought Sam needed to do push-ups. Whatever.

These were the times they got into trouble, needling each other with a little more force, a little less humor. These were the times back before, when Dean would poke at him and Dad would let him and Sam would snarl and it was just one big family party, didn’t you know?

It was when the space around them shrunk, when they felt like they were practically living in each other’s skin. Totally irrational and totally inescapable and it made Sam want to yell at Dean, hurt him for all the times Dean had done the same, and carelessly.

Sam looked back over, noting how Dean had started slowing down, just the slightest aching lengthening of his curt count, but Sam knew him well enough. It didn’t make it better, but it did mean it would stop eventually. And sometimes, the hope of an end was enough to carry Sam through. Sometimes.

“Hundred-nineteen, hundred-twenty—”

Dean just seemed oblivious.

***

It went like this:

“Monk.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious, man, holdin’ all that inside isn’t good for you.”

Sam shot him an incredulous look, really not wanting to ask just what Dean thought he was ‘holding inside.’

Dean got it anyway, rolling his eyes as he waved the last fry like a wand of enlightenment. “You know, stress. Tension.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You probably think all that crap like scented candles and annoying music helps.” The fry gone to its end, Dean waved a hand at him dismissively, like Dean knew the way, would show him the way, if only Sam would assent to being Luke to his Yoda. Or something like that. Which was so not going to happen, so Sam really didn’t get why Dean kept on with it.

Sam looked directly at him, let the silence linger for a beat, let Dean feel it in the emptiness of the room, the late hour. 

“Uh-huh.” With that he looked down, back to the half-picked-at BLT and coleslaw, the memory of sweetness on his tongue too much to make eating any more of it appealing.

Dean made a frustrated noise. “I hate it when you get like this.”

Sam’s head shot up on a glare, not quite believing the audacity—“When _I_ get like this?”

“When _you_ get like this. You give me nothing.” Pronouncement made, Dean tossed his balled-up napkin onto his cleaned plate, glaring at it like it was the plate’s fault for not magically replenishing like some Font of Eternal Food. 

If only it were about the food.

Sam’s plastic fork snapped. He had no idea he was even holding it.

“Uh-huh.”

***

Further, it wasn’t his fault they were stuck in the fucking doldrums of supernatural activity. It wasn’t his fault that every time they got a lead the case was solved by the time they got there, just your garden-variety human evil on display.

And in between Dean would send him girls, pretty, nubile things who fluttered their eyelashes and smelled really good. Sam would ask about their families, their histories, and they always cracked, telling him about this old boyfriend, that old career aspiration. And Sam would let them, would let it fill him and would send it right back, until they all thought there was nothing they couldn’t have, couldn’t do, until they were so enamored of it that they kissed him on the cheek or forehead and left to get on with it.

Sam gave them what he couldn’t take for himself, what Dean couldn’t understand, much less offer, instead sending him blonde, brunette, redhead. 

Sam just shook his head and listened and sent them on their way again. Dean couldn’t find one Sam couldn’t crack and if he weren’t so frustrated, Sam would swear Dean was kind of impressed.

This one’s red dress clung as she walked away, filmy material a whisper of delights untold, fluttering around her hips, drawing attention. And still, he sent her off into the night, bravely girded by newfound confidence in herself. The incredulity coming off the assembled guys in thick, heavy waves were nothing compared to the force of Dean’s glare trying to flay Sam, to find an in.

“I couldn’t get any further from Jessica unless I switched to guys. And I’ll do a lot for you, Sammy, but hitting on guys?” He smacked his beer on the already-shaky table, rattling Sam’s drink, and Sam just smiled placidly, knowing now he had the upper hand. Why that was important, well, he didn’t delve too deeply into that.

“And we’ve reached the limits of your charm, I see.” He took a challenging pull from his bottle and let the thought tempt him; a new way to get at Dean, a new soft spot to probe. To what lengths would he go?

The thing with Dean was that Sam knew there were limits. There had to be.

***

And then in another bar on another stop after another forfeited job, Dean walked by, flicking a disturbingly pretty, dark-haired, green-eyed guy at him and Sam had to push those imagined limits back just that much further. The guy’s looks just another challenge, a way to say, ‘ha. Take what you wanted now. Dare you.’ 

And he could take the guy out back, have him suck off Sam against a trembling wall, the stench of trash in the air, and it’d be another way to prove a point. But then he had to wonder what the hell kind of point was he out to prove, anyway? And why?

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


End file.
